


a matter of windows

by futacookies



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Moving In Together, Unhappy Childhood Memories, sakusa character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:29:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29509740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futacookies/pseuds/futacookies
Summary: There’s a corridor ‒ this isn’t a memory Kiyoomi is particularly fond of ‒ but there’s this corridor, in his parents’ house, he was terrified of walking through as a child. At best, one his older siblings would be there to hold his hand, sometimes Motoya would be with him too, if he was lucky enough, but he usually would have to shut his eyes and run from one end to another without even opening them.The tall, looming windows, always covered with heavy curtains, made that narrow corridor even smaller. He thought, if he couldn’t get out there quickly enough, he would never find his way out, and the walls would have gotten more narrow each passing second, until they’d crushed him to the bones.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Kudos: 14
Collections: COWT - Clash Of the Writing Titans/Chronicles Of Words and Trials





	a matter of windows

**Author's Note:**

> This was _supposed to be_ a character study, but it’s honestly just Sakusa struggling with windows and different apartments. This is literally what I would call a sakuatsu brain fart. Also I may have projected on Sakusa a bit, but is it a character study if you don't project? (yes i was afraid of dark corridors as a child what about it).  
> Anyway, enjoy!

There’s a corridor ‒ this isn’t a memory Kiyoomi is particularly fond of ‒ but there’s this corridor, in his parents’ house, he was terrified of walking through as a child. At best, one his older siblings would be there to hold his hand, sometimes Motoya would be with him too, if he was lucky enough, but he usually would have to shut his eyes and run from one end to another without even opening them.

The tall, looming windows, always covered with heavy curtains, made that narrow corridor even smaller. He thought, if he couldn’t get out there quickly enough, he would never find his way out, and the walls would have gotten more narrow each passing second, until they’d crushed him to the bones.

He’d like to say it was just the corridor in itself, but the truth was the whole house seemed haunted by some dark, ghostly spirit. Maybe he just felt lonely, that’s why everything was so scary and gloomy ‒ or maybe it really was, and he was right, but nobody cares about things that scares a five years old anyway. And he, as a five years old, had many many things that scared him. 

He grew out of it, eventually.

Or so he likes to think. Rationally, he knows there’s nothing there that could possibly hurt him or haunt him down. He knows that, really. Motoya says he’s the most rational person he’s ever known, and Motoya knows a lot of people, so it must be true. But there’s an undeniable tingle at the base of his nape, even now that he considers himself a fully fledged adult, that makes living there so uncomfortable.

He feels suffocating ‒ those windows that never show anything, just the dark, deep green of their curtains, almost telling him he’ll never be able leave, to see anything else beyond his fears and his weakness, forever stuck in a corridor without a way out. 

He’s probably just lonely, with his siblings long moved out and his parents almost never there. A huge, empty place just for him ‒ maybe he’s old enough to move out as well, but imagining how much lonelier he’d be, without the comforting thoughts of his parents eventually coming back for dinner, is even scarier than the house itself.

His college campus offered dorms ‒ he thinks about it thoroughly, before accepting to move there. He takes his time, tries to tell himself he can always come back, if he was to feel so homesick, but the truth is he’s starting to believe if he leaves now he’ll never be able to return. Because he’s aware that whatever he will find out there will be immensely better than what he has know ‒ he knows it’s stupid, because he always had all the commodities: but he would trade those commodieties for a little place, clean and with decent lighting. A place where windows have no curtains.

His dorm is not just little. It’s cramped and he can barely fit all his belongings there and there’s just one tiny window projecting a bothering ray of light right on his pillow, so he hasn’t many chances to sleep after sunrise. 

It’s nothing like he imagined it would be, but still it’s better than home. 

He has to kill a bug or two every few weeks, and he’d lie if he said he didn’t throw up right after, the first time. Sometimes he thinks what he really needs, more than a new place to live, is someone new to live with: someone that will actively take care of him, that will brighten the gloomiest room, that will kill the bugs so he won’t have to. 

But those are just some romantic thoughts he lets slide past his stoic mind once it’s late at night and he can’t sleep. He never had anyone who cared for him like that ‒ he doesn’t know if it’s actually what he needs. He just knows that sometimes, when it’s too dark outside and he’s too tired to control himself, he can still feel that uncomfortable tingle ‒ like he’s about to be chased by some supernatural figure that will get him because he’s alone and has always been alone. 

The flat offered by the MSBY club is a big improvement ‒ it’s a whole house, not just a room, and it has windows but those windows face south so his curtains are always shut, because otherwise his living room would be uncomfortably bright. 

And yet again he’s enveloped in a light that can barely filter, and the horizon is hidden from his eager eyes.

He never considered any of his teammates  _ “friends” _ . Yes, his teammates knew him, and his quirks, and where they shouldn’t poke him. They were just- teammates. And now that he’s pro, he can go as far as calling them  _ colleagues. _

Miya Atsumu, annoying as the memory from his teenage years, kindly refuses to be labeled, and wants to cut for himself a very peculiar spot in his life. Kiyoomi wouldn’t call him a friend ‒ although just out of spite ‒ but he can definitely agree on calling him an annoyance.

But it takes a surprisingly short amount of time for  _ annoyance  _ to become  _ his annoyance _ ‒ which, apparently, was Atsumu’s wicked plan all along. To put it in his words  _ “we’re both hot and lonely but  _ since _ we’re hot we shouldn’t be lonely” _ . And for him that was enough of an excuse to drag him to the movies, or out for a drink, or for his 5 a.m. jog, and worse, it was more than enough to make out in the locker room once every other teammate left. 

«You know, Omi, if you came living with me I could kill bugs for ya.», he suggests one day.

They’re hanging out at his place. Kiyoomi hasn’t been to Atsumu’s yet, because spending the night somewhere else sounds like too much of an hustle to him, and over time Atsumu slowly colonized his house anyway: one time he left a spare change and a toothbrush, then a couple of pijamas ‒  _ even though I hope I will never need them,  _ he winked ‒ and the latest addiction to Kiyoomi’s odd collection of Atsumu’s belongings was a full set of hair products, from shampoo to hair gel, passing through conditioner, hair mask and serum.

«Are you implying you still live with cockroaches?»

Atsumu’s loud, throaty laugh fills his ears ‒ it’s comforting and it tickles him at the same time, in an unprecedented way that makes his heart skip a beat. 

«Sometimes you can be really funny. Honestly though, the only cockroach I ever lived with it’s ‘samu, so you can rest assured.»

«I bet he could say the same thing.»

«But he’d say anything to discredit me!»

Atsumu puts a handful of popcorn in his mouth, chewing in a way that would have disgusted him just a few months ago. His intent stare makes him shift uncomfortably on his couch.

«I just-», he starts, popcorn crumbles on the corner of his mouth, «nevermind.»

Kiyoomi shrugs. He tries to focus on the match they’re watching, some old tapes of the Tachibana Red Falcons. They’re up against them in a few days, and normally Atsumu would be impossible to tear away from these videos, trying to memorize anything he can about their opponents.

Now though, he’s barely looking at the screen. His gaze moves around the room, rests on him for a few seconds, then he closes his eyes for a while. Kiyoomi can’t tell if he’s falling asleep or trying really hard to reach for a long forgotten memory.

«I just think-», he speaks again, and Kiyoomi turns his head to look at him.

One thing he hates about Atsumu, the very same thing that makes him so dear to his heart, it’s how affectioned he can be: you take one look at him and you see nothing but this handsome, athletic, arrogant guy who can’t wait to crush you with his bare hands and then you turn and look again just to find this insufferably adoring puppy, staring at you like you hanged the moon in the sky. 

Right now, for example, his gaze is so soft, so absolutely loving, and Kiyoomi feels weak in the knee even though he’s seated. 

«What-?», he barks, blushing uncontrollably to the tip of his ears. 

«I just think you’d look really nice there.», he says casually, like Kiyoomi didn’t just go haywire, «This place is too dark for you.» 

Turns out, Atsumu’s flat faces north, which means it has good lighting throughout the whole day without feeling too much. He looks around, searching for dust and bugs and a mess he believes Atsumu hid under the couch or in some closet, but the truth is it’s not as bad as he expected ‒ to be honest, it’s exactly what he always wanted: and he knows it’s not about the physical place in itself, but it’s Atsumu presence, that he can feel right by his side even when their not in the same room.

There’s just something he can’t pinpoint, though. He stares, confused, at the windows: they’re nice and squared and you can see over the park Atsumu usually goes for his jogs. But he can tell there’s something off.

Atsumu stands beside him, now staring at his own windows. Then he scratches his neck, embarrassed.

«Oh, about that.», he starts, «I haven’t picked curtains yet.»

It suddenly clicks: what he thought was missing, and it’s actually not supposed to be there ‒  _ a place where windows have no curtains.  _ There’s an adrenaline rush invading his body, as he turns immediately to look at him.

«I don’t mind.», he blurts, cutting off Atsumu talking about choosing them as quickly as possible. «It’s perfect like this.»

«No curtains.», he adds, hugging Atsumu from behind.

The horizon extends for miles before their eyes ‒ Kiyoomi can breathe.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [\- twitter!](https://twitter.com/futacookies)


End file.
